


The Tailor of Fairy Ridge

by almaasi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Castiel & Charlie Bradbury Friendship, Dean Loves Clothes, Dean Loves Pie, Fairy Dean, Fairy Mary Winchester, Fairy Sam, Festivals, Fluff, Friendship, Historical Fantasy, Illustrated, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Mind Control, Mute Dean, POV Alternating, Pre-Slash, Profound Bond, Spring, Tailor Castiel, Witch Charlie Bradbury, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lonely, struggling tailor named Castiel discovers he has a fairy living in his shop, supplying him with clever new ideas for clothes every night. Dean is a glutton for all things sugary, and he doesn't speak a word. Of course, Castiel can't help but adore his company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tailor of Fairy Ridge

**Author's Note:**

> This fic borrows story elements from _The Elves and the Shoemaker_ , _The Tailor of Gloucester_ , _Ratatouille_ , _Thumbelina_ , and _Cinderella_. I guess you could call it a fractured fairy tale.
> 
> **Warnings** for the emotional distress of having clothes torn off, a few minor injuries, magical mind control, references to the crypt scene in Supernatural episode 8x17 "Goodbye Stranger" and the reverse crypt scene in 10x22 "The Prisoner", character death (baddies only, I promise), and several mentions (but no appearances) of mice. I think mice are adorable but I imagine not everyone does. Also, bees.

Dean arrived the same way the elves did in that fairy tale, the one about the shoemaker.

One night, Castiel went to bed exhausted from the day, no closer to finishing his garment for Lord Crowley than he was hours earlier. Out of ideas, out of fabric. He couldn’t stitch a robe out of velvet if he had no more velvet, and no money to buy more.

He awoke in a cold sweat at the break of dawn. He slumped downstairs feeling hopeless, then made his way to his desk. He hunched over his paper sketches, only to discover clumsy pencil markings had been added all over his patterns: crossings-out, re-drawn lines. His first instinct was to worry about thieves – he couldn’t afford another break-in, not now – but when he calmed down enough to think about what he was looking at, he realised nothing had been taken. In fact, he’d been _given_ something.

He pushed the pattern paper out flat on his workbench. His design was more or less the same, but some of the swatches of velvet he’d pinned to the paper had been replaced by tiny squares of satin.

“Satin lapels on a velvet robe?” Castiel murmured, his eyebrows knitting together. “How strange.” His eyebrows rose as he considered the effect that might have. “My God, that’s beautiful.” It wasn’t merely a solution to his problem, it was the conception of a whole new style!

He set about finishing the robe, and was so pleased with the final product that he sat for a whole hour afterwards to stare at the mannequin, marvelling at what he’d created.

Whoever thought up such a revolutionary design was a genius, who perhaps knew the craft better than Castiel himself. Castiel couldn’t help but feel indebted to them. If only he knew who they were...

As Castiel expected, he was paid handsomely for the robe, far more than he’d ever been paid before. Lord Crowley was many things, and pleasant was not one of them, but he was rich, and he rewarded good work with good money.

Castiel spent his earnings on new fabrics, restocking his sparse supply – and he even invested in one of those newfangled sewing machines, hoping the gadget was more than a gimmick. It took pride of place on his workbench, black metal gleaming in the light of the candles Castiel had lit that evening.

His supper was little more than a slice of toast spread with butter, topped with a thin slice of meat and sprinkled with a handful of dried sunflower seeds. He pined for something more exotic, more tasty, more filling. His hope was that soon he’d make enough money to buy whatever food he desired.

He ate at his desk whilst working his hand over a fresh piece of pattern paper, sketching something new. He wanted to make something lavish tomorrow to test out his machine.

When he was satisfied with his plan, he went to bed, leaving his dinnerplate on top of the paper, crumbs littered about the desk.

Upon returning the next morning, he had to check twice before he could convince himself he wasn’t losing his mind: his plate had been moved halfway across the desk, his papers shifted, and every crumb had been cleaned away.

“Mice,” Castiel said despairingly. “You little monsters will take all my cloth for bedding unless I do something immediately.”

He went out that very morning and purchased a wooden bucket, and returned home with food from the market carried inside. He made himself a delicious sandwich for lunch, and sat to eat while poring over his designs.

He froze halfway through a bite, spying a set of pencil lines on his paper, much like the ones he’d found a few days before. “Shirt cuffs _without_ frills?” Castiel squinted at the page. “That would look ridiculous.”

He ate all he was going to eat, then tidied away his plate. He put the leftover crusts of his sandwich into the bucket, and set the bucket on the far side of his workroom, where the late winter sunlight wouldn’t reach. He then propped a stick from the floor to the rim of the bucket, sure that the mice wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation of good food.

He spent the day sewing together the outfit he’d planned, cotton lace with white satin ties draped at the neckline. Without a doubt, anyone who bought this shirt would look handsome and wealthy.

Castiel was about to cut material for the frills on the sleeves, but he paused. He tilted his head, looking over what was already a beautiful garment. Would it really be any better with the frills? Would anyone spend money buying the same kind of shirt they could find at another shop around the corner? What if this one was _different_? What if it was _special_?

Before Castiel could decide, he was startled by a loud _clank!_

He spun around, eyes darting to the mousetrap. He hurried forward, pulling out the bucket and peering inside.

There was no mouse inside. There was also no food.

“How on Earth did you manage that?” Castiel muttered, thoroughly confused. No mouse could jump high enough to escape the bucket, especially not if it had quarter of a sandwich in its mouth. Still, Castiel reset the trap, using a mouthful of mince pie as bait this time. He didn’t want to use a _real_ trap – he was too kind to the vermin and he knew it, but he couldn’t bear to kill even one.

He returned to making his shirt, but he left off the cuffs. The shirt looked fine without them.

Castiel then made trousers, a jacket, and a matching cravat – he sold the outfit before the day was over, which made him giddy with elation. The lapels of the new jacket were satin. People loved what he made for Lord Crowley, and they wanted more. For the first time in his life, Castiel had started a trend.

He checked the mousetrap before bed. Again, to his surprise, the food was gone but the mouse was nowhere to be seen.

“Clever mice,” Castiel mused, not sure whether to feel disturbed or intrigued. He left the bucket empty overnight. He had some money now, but he had no intention to spend it all feeding the skittery animals who lived in his walls.

He had dreams of mice that night, hundreds of them pouring off his bookshelves and sweeping across his workroom, their tiny paws holding tight to each other to make bridges out of their fellow nestmates. He dreamed of them working together to sew fantastic clothes, new designs nobody had ever seen before.

Castiel woke up and ran his hands over his face, feeling like he’d missed something important. His dream was fading fast, but one idea remained drifting about his thoughts: there was something intelligent living in his workroom. In the ten years since Castiel had come of age, he’d always lived alone – but clearly it was no longer true.

“Good morning,” Castiel mumbled to his workroom when he entered. He wrapped his bathrobe tighter around his chest, reaching up on tiptoes to water the plants that hung in pots from the ceiling. “I hope you slept well.”

He wasn’t talking to the plants, although he did do that on occasion. Today he spoke to the creature in his workroom, whether it was a mouse or something else entirely.

Castiel made himself breakfast, but left some of his toast uneaten, then balanced it at the edge of his desk. It was slathered thickly with butter and orange marmalade; Castiel didn’t think any living creature could resist such deliciousness – human, mouse, or otherwise.

Not one hour later, Castiel turned to reach for his quill, and was stunned to see the toast had been abducted without him noticing.

“Whatever you are, you’re fast, quiet, and undoubtedly smart,” Castiel said aloud, leaning back on his stool. His eyes glanced along the dark rafters of his shop, darting from plant pot to cobweb to plant pot again, seeing nothing move. “You’re also hungry, aren’t you?”

No reply, but Castiel hadn’t expected one.

Two days went by, and whatever – or _who_ ever shared Castiel’s space became bolder, taking more risks. Castiel once had a currant bun whisked out from under his nose – he’d put it down for ten seconds as he brushed down crumbs from his front, and when he looked up, it was gone.

Definitely not a mouse. Mice weren’t strong enough to lift such a dense item of food by themselves, nor were they as coordinated in groups as they were in Castiel’s dreams. A rat would be stronger, but rats weren’t quiet.

Regardless, neither mouse nor rat nor _anything_ Castiel could think of was smart enough to exchange designs for food.

Each night, Castiel came down to his workbench and found new drawings, innovative ideas for clothes. Satin lapels and shirts without cuffs were only the beginning: now he made shoulder bags, and pockets inside other pockets, and found entirely new ways to turn up trouser hems. He thought he’d acquired plenty of knowledge while doing his tailor’s apprenticeship, and yet he’d learned more in the past week about finding new styles and re-inventing his own ideas than he ever thought possible.

He posed questions to his workroom often, but he never got a response. Thinking his anonymous helper might not understand his voice, he tried writing those same questions on his pattern paper before bed. _Who are you?_ he wrote. _Why are you helping me?_

He never found a reply written down, just more drawings. 

Answers came at last, nearly two weeks after Castiel’s helper first arrived. Castiel had made so much money in that time that he could now afford the food he’d been hungering for for many years: sugar-crusted pastries, filled with ruby-red cherries and soft, glazed fruit, preserved for the winter in thick maple syrup.

He dared not buy a whole pie in case he ate the entire thing and made himself sick, but he purchased a slice, taking it home in a box. He got to the shop and opened up the box on his desk, his mind dazed by the beauty of the top crust and the thick, rich insides which had already begun to relax out of their shape. Hurrying so as not to let the pie collapse completely, Castiel went to the kitchen to get a plate.

In his haste, he dropped the plate – white shards scattered across the kitchen tiles, hitting the iron stove and bouncing off the cupboards like water ripples in a bathtub, smacked in new directions. Castiel couldn’t get back to his workroom without first tidying up, so he sighed, craning across the kitchen to reach for the broom.

He swept everything into a corner, agonised that while he was busy, the pie filling was escaping the confines of the pastry. He didn’t bother to sweep the shards away completely; he left the mess in a pile, then wiped his hands and grabbed another plate, heading back for his workroom.

He paused at the door, hearing a noise. A soft, gentle noise, clicking and squishing, like a mouse eating.

Castiel crept forward, trying to listen past his own heartbeat. The sound was coming from the slice of pie on his desk. There was a movement behind the pie, a real movement. There was something there! Castiel hadn’t imagined any of it!

Castiel edged closer and closer to his desk. He could see a dark shape now, like a head of hair.

Wait... Was that...?

Castiel saw a small body. A little man, one hand buried in the pie, one hand against his face. He was so busy stuffing himself that he hadn’t noticed Castiel approach.

Breathless, Castiel realised what he was looking at was a fairy.

“Hello,” Castiel whispered.

The fairy glanced up, and dragonfly wings erupted from his back. He scrambled to his feet, but he was too full of pie to move quickly.

“Wait!” Castiel lurched forward, putting down his plate. “Please wait.”

The fairy tried to hover, bobbing in the air. He looked at Castiel, Castiel stared back—

And then the fairy was gone, as if he’d never been there. He’d moved so fast Castiel had lost sight of him in the blink of an eye.

Castiel sat down on his stool heavily, staring at the pie. Nearly a quarter of it was gone. That fairy was only six inches tall, so it was startling he’d managed to eat so much. Of course, the weight of what he’d eaten had kept him from fleeing, but Castiel was nothing but grateful.

“A real fairy,” he breathed, eyes rising to the wall in front of him. Stacks of sewing equipment rested on the shelves there. One of those boxes, pots or books hid the fairy from Castiel’s view.

“Don’t worry,” Castiel said, nodding, “I won’t tell anyone you’re here. Fairies haven’t been seen in this town for over a hundred years, I’m sure there was a good reason all of you went into hiding.” He gulped, realising his fairy might need further reassurance: “You can trust me. I have no intention to hurt you.”

The fairy didn’t reveal himself, so Castiel let him be.

Castiel hummed as he made a pair of jackets, and he made up songs while he used his sewing machine to make not only satin lapels, but turned-up wrist satin cuffs. Happiness had settled in Castiel’s belly, and the pie was only half the reason. A childhood fantasy of his had come true: as far as he knew, he was the only person to see a fairy in a century. Such a privilege was unparalleled, both in the town of Fairy Ridge, and throughout the whole kingdom.

From what little Castiel had seen of his fairy, the creature was beautiful: a tiny, nearly-nude man, pale-skinned, dressed in fine turquoise netting as thin as thread. The garment hid nothing, but Castiel had never felt ashamed by naked bodies. What the fairy lacked in sex was more than made up for by the size of his wings. Clear as crystal, smooth-edged, exquisitely embroidered by asymmetrical dark lines, not unlike the lead lattices in the windows of Castiel’s shop. The wings were almost as big as the fairy himself. Four wings, if Castiel’s memory served him right.

Incredible.

Three more days passed, and Castiel never once saw the fairy. He wondered once or twice if he’d scared the creature away, but each time he left out food, he was reassured when it vanished within minutes. Sometimes he even heard the fairy rushing about, a faint buzzing of wings, hovering here and there. Castiel fancied he was being watched; the fairy wanted to peek over his shoulder, but every time Castiel’s curiosity won out and he turned his head to look back, the fairy took cover.

Castiel’s resolve was strong on the fourth day. He heard the buzzing and he held his breath, eyes locked to the paper before him. He felt the gust of air that meant the fairy was bobbing about only a few inches behind him, fluttering from his left shoulder to his right.

Castiel let out a breath. “I’m designing a dress,” he said quietly. The presence startled away, but came back a few moments later. Castiel relaxed, smiling at what he was drawing. “Queen Abaddon asked for me. She sent a letter to my shop this morning. Do you want to know what it said?”

Buzzing, buzzing.

Castiel reached for the letter and unfolded it. “It’s addressed to me. _I saw what you made for Lord Crowley, and I was impressed_ , she wrote. _I should like you to make me a gown of the finest silk, for I need something to wear to the Spring Festival._ Do you understand that, fairy? The ruler of the whole kingdom wants _me_ to make her a dress!” Castiel glanced over his shoulder, and gasped as he caught sight of the fairy, bent at the waist to see the letter. The fairy looked up, Castiel saw his green eyes – and at once, he was gone, whizzing off to hide on the other side of the room.

“You are terribly shy, aren’t you?” Castiel smiled, eyes drifting over the books stacked against that side of the room. “Will you ever let me see you properly?”

The room was silent but for the tick of the clock.

Castiel sighed.

“I have you to thank for this, fairy,” he said to the room at large. “Without your help I would still be poor and struggling. I might even have been out of a job. When you first came to me, I was lost. You... saved me. You saved me, fairy. And I don’t even know your name.”

With a sad smile, Castiel swivelled on his seat and went back to drawing.

Fifteen minutes later, the clock struck five, and Castiel looked up and saw the sky was not yet dark. “Springtime creeps nearer every day. I don’t have long to make this dress. Two weeks, that’s all.” He ran his hands over his designs, then sank a hand into his hair, fingers spread. “I feel as though, if I didn’t have you to help me, fairy, I would fail miserably. I’ve never handled a project with so much prestige before. I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

He heard a buzz, but the buzz fell silent. Castiel glanced to the corner of his desk, and his eyes widened as he saw the little fairy standing there. His arms were wrapped around himself, as if he was still trying to hide despite standing in plain sight. His hair was a close-cropped brown, longer at the top and near the nape of his neck. A braid of tropical feathers dangled over his shoulder, decorations so small it was like they’d been plucked from miniature birds. His ears were pointed at the tips, his lips pink. He stood with his knees bent outwards, toes curled up tight.

“Will you help me?” Castiel asked, tentatively.

The fairy gave a smile, sweet as anything. He nodded, and Castiel grinned.

“Thank you, fairy,” Castiel said, meaning it with every fibre of his being.

The fairy bowed ever so slightly, but he looked discontent. He lifted a hand from his side and swept a gesture through the air, a wriggling but sharp movement, fingers splayed.

“What does that mean?” Castiel asked squinting.

The fairy repeated the movement, but Castiel had to shake his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you,” he said. “Can you speak?”

The fairy opened his mouth, flaring his fingers away from his lips to illustrate speech. He shook his head and let his hand drop back to his middle.

“Ah,” Castiel said. “But you understand me, don’t you?”

The fairy nodded, a smug smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

“Good.” Castiel smiled back. “That’s good.”

Hesitantly, he lifted a hand to the desk, sneaking it closer to the fairy. He tried to be friendly about it, but the fairy panicked and took off, hovering for a second before disappearing towards the bookshelf.

“Apologies,” Castiel called, but the room had fallen silent again. Not one buzz.

When it was time for bed, Castiel packed up his quill and his pencils, pinning all his fabric swatches where they were meant to be. Before he retired, however, he paused and examined the desk. He then reached for his pencil pot and pulled out an old, blunt stub of a pencil that he had neglected to throw away. Perfect. He picked up the nearest knife and sharpened the pencil stub to a point, brushing away splinters until the wood was smooth.

He put the fairy-sized pencil down in the middle of his designs, and he felt satisfied. “Goodnight,” he said to the room. “Sleep well, fairy.”

That night, Castiel slept and dreamed of silk, of satin, sky-blue fabric tumbling from the sky in elegant twists, floating on air, part of the season’s fresh daylight.

He woke, and in a rush of excitement he hurried downstairs, ready to cut a new swatch and pin it to his design paper. He reached his desk, then chuckled when he saw the fairy had already done what Castiel had come here to do.

“I see we’re of the same mind,” Castiel announced to the room, eyes lifting as he saw an ivy leaf flutter about. “Sky blue fabric would be perfect.” He watched the fairy shoot from the ivy to the bookshelf and back again, his tiny form peeking out from the brass plant pot. Castiel beamed at him.

Once mid-afternoon arrived and Castiel still couldn’t work out what the fairy was trying to tell him with all his hand-waving, he left his shop and went down to the local bookshop, and he purchased that absurdly expensive book which had been kept on display for a couple of generations now, and had subsequently become a joke amongst the townsfolk. _Communicating With FaerieFolk_ was its title.

Nobody around here thought fairies were real any more; they were a bedtime story lingering like night-time mist between the ancient walls of the kingdom. Stories of the fairies’ affection for humans and their aptitude for helpfulness had long been passed down from great-great-grandparents to their children, on and on. Fanciful tales. Maybe that was why Castiel was the person the fairies chose to contact after all this time: he’d never believed for a second that the tales weren’t true. He felt the same about dragons, but he was glad he’d met a fairy rather than a dragon.

“There,” Castiel said, dumping the heavy tome onto his desk. He set aside his sewing machine, and ran his hands over the textured cover of the book. “Come, fairy. Let’s learn a new language.”

He sat down and opened the book at the first page, then turned to the second. Each line of the book was handwritten, gorgeous illustrations were inscribed on every yellowing leaf, intricate borders flowed flawlessly into drop caps, and sections in small boxes announced extra information and tips. It was well worth the price, especially if being able to talk to his fairy meant Castiel could soon craft even better clothing and make enough money to replace everything he’d spent on this book.

“There’s an alphabet,” Castiel smiled, feeling relieved. “Oh, this is very simple. Wonderful.”

He heard a buzz, and at once, the fairy perched atop the sewing machine, hands around the spool to hold himself steady. He wore the same curious expression that Castiel felt on his own face.

Castiel spent a few minutes reading over the alphabet, murmuring its letters and practicing its hand gestures. His hands were already limber because of what he did for a living, so even the most complicated of letters (the letter ‘K’ – a downward sweep with the hand vertical, followed by a twist of fingers towards the heart) came easily to Castiel. He might have trouble memorising it all, but he fully intended to try.

When Castiel reached the end of the alphabet, the fairy buzzed to get his attention.

The fairy repeated the same gesture he’d made the previous day. Hand curved inward, rolling motion outwards, both hands flat with the palms up, then a fast flutter of fingers heading upwards. He did it fast, then slow.

“Oh, I see what you’re doing now,” Castiel said under his breath. “You’re spelling something.”

He copied all the motions with his own hands, correcting himself when the fairy stomped his foot in frustration. When Castiel got it correct, he looked up the motions on the translation page.

“D,” Castiel read, then moved to the next motion. “E. ...Aaaay? N.”

He wrote down all the letters. The fairy couldn’t understand written words, so shook his head, and instead patted his heart. When Castiel frowned, the fairy patted his heart again more insistently.

“Is that your name?”

The fairy raised his arms in a cheer, delight on his face. He nodded, and repeated the original gesture, signing his own name.

“Dean,” Castiel said. “Your name’s Dean.”

Dean stopped smiling, and his eyes widened. His hands clasped slowly over his heart, taking a great interest in what Castiel had said.

“Do the other fairies speak?” Castiel asked, taken aback by Dean’s reaction.

Dean shook his head.

Castiel’s breath escaped his mouth and he smiled, in awe. “You can’t have heard your name spoken aloud very many times, then.”

Dean smiled, clearly bursting full of unexpected happiness. He covered his mouth with a hand, then let it slip down. He touched his heart, then flew to Castiel’s chest and touched his heart too. Castiel didn’t feel the touch through his waistcoat, but he was sure it meant something important. While Dean returned to his place on the sewing machine, Castiel searched the guide for something to tell him what the gesture meant.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Castiel read out. “Thank you?”

Dean nodded.

He had a beautiful smile.

And so it went on. They learned to speak that way, to move their hands and share their thoughts. Dean would spend his days hovering about, sneaking food off Castiel’s plate and watching over him as he sewed. Every so often, Dean would wave his arms around and tell Castiel he was an ignorant snail and he was doing it all wrong.

For someone so tiny, Dean had a lot of lofty opinions. Particularly about clothing.

Still, Castiel accepted his suggestions, since Dean was rarely wrong. Castiel may have disagreed with him on occasion and done what his instinct drove him to do, but he made sure to tell Dean he valued his suggestion too. Dean didn’t mind one bit.

It was clear from Dean’s enthusiasm and the way he shed his shyness like a winter coat over the following days, he enjoyed every minute of working in Castiel’s shop. Aside from the obvious pleasure he took from gorging himself on sweet treats, he seemed to like Castiel’s company as much as he liked the clothing itself. The fairy would wrap himself in fabric offcuts and parade about the room like a peacock, pulling faces and making Castiel laugh so hard he jammed the needle on his sewing machine.

Castiel made Dean a little set of bedsheets, a fluffy comforter and a pillow, and Dean tucked them tidily inside a hanging flowerpot. He’d slept there every night since he’d arrived, but now, with Castiel’s blessing, he had a real place all of his own.

In less than two weeks, they developed a friendship so fierce that Castiel could barely recall what his life had been like without Dean’s company, aside from a feeling of emptiness and incompletion he only sensed in hindsight. Dean shared what it had been like for him before he’d met Castiel, and confessed that emptiness and incompletion had been part of his life too. He said the other fairies had warned him against interacting with humans, but Dean was a curious soul. Castiel smiled, knowing it to be true.

Dean sat on Castiel’s sewing kit, swinging his legs as he signed with his hands. His family had allowed him to leave by himself, Dean explained, but he’d had to promise them he would reveal himself only to trustworthy humans. He was here to help Castiel, in the same way fairies did in lore, in myth. Dean had grown up with the same stories as Castiel, but told from the perspective of the helpers rather than the humans.

Fairies had always prided themselves on being helpful, but humanity was dangerous, Dean signed. Humans liked to trap and hurt his friends, his family.

Watching Dean’s expression turn to one of mourning, Castiel realised he wasn’t the first person to see a fairy in a hundred years. He was simply the first person not to try and hurt or enslave one.

He reached forward and touched his fingertip to Dean’s hand, giving him gentle reassurance.

“I’m sorry we cause such trouble for your kind,” Castiel said. “Perhaps all of us would be better off if humans believed the aid of fairies was nothing but wishful thinking.”

Dean nodded, but then sighed. _I don't regret choosing you._

Castiel lowered his eyes, a smile warming him from deep within. “I will always be glad you chose me.”

Each day that passed, the sun shone brighter and for longer, lighting up Castiel’s workroom and bringing a joyous energy to every waking hour. The plants over his workspace grew happily, and the ivy even started to bud. Springtime was fast approaching; they only had days until the Spring Festival.

Castiel counted himself and Dean as a team, and they were equally determined to finish the project together.

“She’s coming for her dress-fitting today,” Castiel said. His throat felt tight due to his excitement. “The Queen, in _my_ shop! Oh, I’m shaking. How am I meant to get through this?!”

He breathed in as Dean hovered in his face, and he breathed out as Dean took each of his cheeks in his hands, so close to Castiel’s face that he went cross-eyed. Dean buzzed backwards, and gestured the way Castiel had taught him, palms flat down, pushing low. _Calm down._

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel muttered, smiling when he saw Dean smile. “We’ve done a good job on the dress. A very good job.”

That confidence had been worked for, and well-deserved: Queen Abaddon loved her dress.

She stood before a mirror in Castiel's shop, her flaming red hair pinned extravagantly atop her head. Her lips of ruby-rouge pulled into a sharp smile, and she laughed, turning side to side to see her dress at new angles. The sky-blue fabric shimmered in the sunlight, the topmost layers of the skirt laced with silver thread so it caught the light, like water vapour hanging in the air on a fresh morning.

“Beautiful,” the Queen said. She took her sceptre from her lady’s maid, and twirled it while her grin widened. “It could come in a little at the waist, but so far, tailor, I’m pleased. You’re a skilled craftsman.”

Castiel stood by his desk and beamed, hands fiddling with his measuring tape. “Thank you, your majesty.”

“And to do all of this yourself, it must’ve been hard work.”

Castiel hesitated, eyes darting to the plant pot Dean was hiding it. “Y- Yes, ma’am,” he said, but then gulped. He couldn’t take all the credit, not when Dean had worked equally hard. “I actually... had some help.”

“Did you, now?” Abaddon smiled, eyes sparkling. “And where are your helpers today? Didn’t they want to meet the Queen?”

Castiel stared at the plant pot. His eyes darted back to the Queen. “His name is Dean. He’s a shy creature, I’m not sure he wants to show himself.” Castiel heard a faint buzz. Now, Castiel knew Dean could be as quiet as he liked, so it seemed like Dean was trying to make himself known. Castiel glanced towards the pot. “Dean? Would you care to come out?”

The room fell silent.

The Queen looked baffled, her eyebrows sliding closer, her lips parting to speak. Before she could comment, however, Dean peeked out from the plant pot, grew bolder, and flew across the room to sit on Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel chuckled, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s body and taking him into his hand. “This is Dean,” he said, smiling at the Queen. “I couldn’t have made your dress without his help. Really it’s him you should be praising.”

The Queen looked stunned, but it was her lady’s maid who got excited. “It’s a fairy, ma’am! A real one! Oh, my daughter would never believe me, I always told her they were nothing but made-up tales!”

“Quiet, Esme,” Abaddon snapped. “It’s some sort of trick, there’s no such thing as fairies.”

Dean folded his arms and looked cross. Castiel chuckled, and stepped forward to show the women his friend. Dean panicked, unfolded his arms and spun around to hide against Castiel’s fingers, head down and wings folded up.

“It’s all right, Dean,” Castiel said soothingly. “They won’t hurt you.”

“Oh Lord, it’s adorable,” Esme smiled. “Ma’am, look at its little wings!”

Abaddon sniffed. “Can’t you cover its skin, tailor? The thing is practically naked. You might damage Esme’s fragile sensibilities.”

Castiel cupped his hand over Dean’s body, hiding him away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you’d mind.”

“Shh,” Esme said, batting a hand towards the Queen. “It’s only a fairy. Its _thingie_ is itty-bitty anyway.”

Abaddon laughed softly. She looked up at Castiel, amusement dancing in her eyes. “I’ll admit, it’s... cute.”

Castiel smiled, feeling Dean squirm in his hands. “I’m sure Dean is flattered.”

“Say,” Abaddon said, looking down at her dress and stroking the fabric with a slim hand, “how would you feel, tailor, if I were to invite you to the Spring Festival?”

Castiel blinked. He chuckled, then said, “Well, if I’m honest, I’d think you were joking.”

“Oh, I’m not joking,” Abaddon smiled, handing her sceptre to Esme, reaching for Esme’s satchel instead. She took out a notebook and a pre-inked quill (top of the line; Castiel wouldn’t expect any less). Queen Abaddon paused before she wrote anything, her eyes set on Castiel. “If I were to write you an invitation right here, right now, would you attend?”

Castiel spluttered. “But— But the festival is only for... the elite! Lords, ladies. Or the most extravagant shop stalls – and I'm not that. It takes me weeks to design and make a decent outfit, other tailors can think up new ideas in just days. I don’t have anything backlogged! And as I said...” He slid his hand off Dean, and Dean peeked out at the room, his hair ruffled. “I couldn’t do any of it without Dean.”

“And,” Abaddon said slowly, writing in her notebook, “that is why I am inviting Dean along too. You will be treated as honoured guests.”

“Your majesty, I couldn’t let you—”

Dean buzzed, cutting Castiel off. Dean glared ferociously. He wanted to go to the festival, and he wasn’t going to let Castiel’s sense of inferiority stop him.

Castiel bowed his head. “I gladly accept, your highness.”

“Good,” Abaddon said, tearing out a page from her book. She handed the note to Castiel, and tossed her notebook into Esme’s waiting hands. “I hope to see you there, tailor. Wear something handsome, won’t you? I won’t have you strolling about among the _elite_ wearing that shabby waistcoat.”

Castiel looked down at himself. This was his finest outfit.

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Excellent. Come, Esme, help me out of this dress so we can go home. I’m sure you can’t wait to tell everyone you know about... Dean.”

When Queen Abaddon and her lady’s maid had left, Castiel sat on his stool and stared at the sky-blue dress pinned to the mannequin, its plush folds and sparkling fabric dwarfing everything in his small, dark shop. Castiel felt it didn’t really belong here, the same way he wouldn’t belong at the festival.

Dean sat upon Castiel’s knee, arms around his own legs. Castiel took his tiny friend in his hand for comfort, and felt glad that Dean didn’t attempt to escape.

“What am I to do?” Castiel whispered. “The festival is the day after tomorrow. It’s already four o’clock – damn. I don’t have time to make myself an outfit. And I spent all my money buying _Communicating with FaerieFolk_ ; until the Queen pays me for this dress I can’t afford to buy new clothes.”

Dean buzzed his wings in thought. Then he looked up at Castiel with an idea shining in his eyes. _I know!_ he signed, hands moving so fast that Castiel frowned, hurrying to translate. _I can go to my family! They'll help me make you something. Charlie knows how._

“Like in my dream,” Castiel breathed. “I dreamed mice worked together to make something spectacular. You and your family work like that too?”

Dean shrugged. _We can make what you need. Let me go to them and I can be back by the morning of the festival._

Castiel bit his lip. “Are you sure? Is it safe? What if someone sees you on the way? I can’t protect you if I don’t know where you are.”

Dean fluttered up to Castiel’s chest, and Castiel leaned back and hooked his elbows on his desk, so Dean could land on his heart. Dean touched a tiny hand to Castiel’s chin, an affectionate gesture. _Trust me,_ he signed. _You fix up the Queen’s dress while I’m gone._

“I can do that,” Castiel agreed. He couldn’t help the tight, uncomfortable feeling in his belly, though. He went to the kitchen and opened a window, and he let Dean hop onto the ledge, but Castiel told him to wait before he left. “I have a bad feeling about this, Dean.”

Dean smiled, shaking his head. _Everything will be fine,_ he assured Castiel.

“Everything will be fine,” Castiel echoed. The anxiety inside him turned to dread as he watched Dean take off, buzzing away until he was nothing more than a speck against dark clouds. A storm was coming in, and Dean might still have a long way to travel.

“Come back safe,” Castiel whispered into the wind. He smelled the approaching rain on the warm breeze, and he retreated back to the comfort of his shop.

He may as well work while Dean was gone. He began with the dress; he took it in at the waist, and he stitched up the finishing touches on the hem. He couldn’t believe when he was done before suppertime. Surely there was something he’d missed?

No... No, the dress was done.

It seemed anticlimactic in a way. Dean was meant to have been here to celebrate.

Filled with worry, Castiel ignored the storm that raged against his windows, howling down the chimney and bothering the flames in the fireplace. He set his mind on a different task. He pulled out scraps of fabric, picking the colours Dean liked the best when he played dress-up. Maroon, dark green, purple. Velvet, satin, silk; cotton lace and embroidery thread.

Castiel was going to make Dean a special outfit. It was only fair, since Dean was going to make one for Castiel, and Castiel didn’t think the Queen or her underlings would appreciate seeing a naked fairy at a high-class gathering.

He designed it without Dean’s help, guidance or input, but he worked using inspiration he’d garnered while bringing Dean’s concepts to life. He worked until bedtime, only then remembering he hadn’t eaten supper. He only nibbled, and afterwards realised he’d left a portion uneaten for Dean. He ate the extra few bites guiltily, concerned that Dean hadn’t taken any provisions with him.

Castiel had been a fool to let Dean go. It was dark now. Even if Dean had waited until the sun rose the following morning before leaving, everything would have been simpler.

Castiel went to bed at midnight, his mind still alive with the repetitive movement he needed for stitches, constantly turning cloth and running it under his machine, through his fingers, and he still heard the clatter of mechanics and the swish of cloth even when he blew out his candle and closed his eyes to sleep.

As he waited for dreams to come, he imagined over and over that Dean reached his destination safely, met with his family, and began making the outfit he intended to make. Castiel didn’t know where he’d get fabric from, but he trusted the fairy knew what he was doing. There would be something wearable to come out of this, he was sure of it.

Castiel spent the entirety of the next day finishing Dean’s outfit. He would be wearing a handsome miniature of what was now Castiel’s signature jacket, with a velvet outer, a silk inner, and satin lapels and sleeve cuffs. The design underneath was adapted into a tunic, since Castiel didn’t think Dean would want to wear a shirt and trousers like a human. Castiel took care to add pockets, each with another pocket inside. On his feet, Dean would wear tiny moccasins, and under the tunic he would wear underwear – the kind he always seemed most fond of when Castiel made them for his customers, small enough that they might have comfortably fit a doll. Finally, Castiel stitched the edges of a cravat, embroidered with paisley.

“You’ll be the best-dressed fairy who ever lived,” Castiel said, setting everything aside. He lined Dean’s new outfit up on a velvet cushion, presenting it like a gift. When Dean got home in the morning, he’d see his new clothes and he’d be overjoyed.

Satisfied, Castiel went into the kitchen and put a meal together for himself. He made a frail, substandard pastry and filled it with sad-looking fruit slices, but with a drizzle of sugar granules on top, it was a treat as decent as he could hope for. He left a neat slice beside the velvet cushion so Dean had something to feast on the moment he got back.

Castiel retired for the night, pausing twice before he ascended the stairs. Without Dean here his home felt so empty. He couldn’t wait until his friend returned.

Castiel was spared from nightmares that night, but only because he slept so deeply he forgot every dream upon waking. He didn’t want to get out of bed at all, but then he remembered – the festival! Today was the day!

He rushed from bed and shoved his feet into his slippers, hurrying downstairs while wrapping his bathrobe around himself. “Dean,” he said, pattering into his workroom. “Dean, where are you? Are you home?”

Sunlight glazed the workroom beautifully, the air washed clean from the storms of the past few days. The ivy plants gleamed with life, their flowers bursting bright with colour. Everything was on track for a wild springtime, but until Castiel got his friend back, he wasn’t ready for joy. Castiel went to his desk, half expecting the clothes and the pie to still be there.

Like the first time Castiel had encountered Dean, the bait was gone but the fairy was nowhere to be seen.

“Dean?” Castiel called to the room, looking between the plant pots. “Please don’t hide from me, I need to know you’re safe. We can play hide-and-seek later, and you’ll win like you always do. But not now. Show yourself to me!” His eyes moved from one part of the room to the other. He checked under the Queen’s dress, he climbed a step ladder and checked the plants. “Dean,” he called again. “Please come out.”

It was so quiet in the shop that Castiel’s ears rung like bells.

“Dean.”

No reply.

Castiel looked at the human-sized outfit that someone had draped over his sewing machine, dusted with golden glitter. Castiel lifted the waistcoat and brushed it clean of shimmers, admiring the richly-patterned fabric. A turned-up collar made the waistcoat fantastic; its design was new and exciting. Castiel breathed a grin, feeling a flutter in his heart. “Thank you, Dean,” he whispered. He looked at the narrow-legged black trousers, the white shirt (completely free of frills), the sleek cobalt blue cravat, and he marvelled at their beauty. “I never imagined I would ever have something so perfect to wear.”

He looked up to Dean’s usual sitting spot in the hanging pot of ivy, but there was no movement, no cheeky smile or buzz of wings.

Castiel’s smile slid from his face. “You’re not here, are you? You’re gone.”

Castiel looked at the plate licked clean of pie, and his eyes welled with tears. There, on the plate, was a line of crumbs, formed into a heart.

⧫ ◊ ⧫ ◊ ⧫

Dean turned on the spot, arms out as he beamed. _What do you think?_

 _You look like a human,_ Sam signed, wearing an unimpressed expression. _Trust humans to try and make you dress exactly like them. No respect for our heritage or our customs, none at all._

_Cas isn’t like that, bug-face,_ Dean replied with a sneer, tugging on his tunic. It fit perfectly, and he thought he looked incredibly handsome. The darker colours made the feathers dangling from the back of his hair look that much more striking. _Mom, what do you think?_

Mary stepped forward, her eyes narrowed discerningly. She ran her fingers over the satin lapels, then opened up the front of the tunic to see the cravat underneath. _Acceptable,_ she signed. _I’m surprised you can still fly with all these pointless layers._

_Wing holes!_ Dean signed with real enthusiasm, turning around to flutter his wings in his mother’s face. _He measured everything perfectly. I didn’t even know he was going to make me something._

“Well, obviously,” Charlie said aloud, her larger human form leaning closer. Her pointy hat dangled over her face, a sparkly pom-pom bouncing at the end. “If this tailor of yours had even _hinted_ he was going to make something for you, you would’ve _told_ him that providing you with clothes would free you from your obligation. Because that’s what you do, Dean, you get attached and then you try and _bind_ yourself to people.”

Dean made a dismissive gesture, eyes on the witch. _I don’t see you complaining._

“Well, you’re super helpful. If I complained about how nice your company was I’d be violating the School of Witchcraft’s dropouts’ code, or something.” Charlie blinked, pursing her lips as her eyes drifted towards the sunny windows of her cottage. She sighed. “I’m such a disgrace. Modern witches are meant to have cats and bats and frogs for company, not fairies. And they’re certainly not meant to have pretty robes!”

_Not this again,_ Sam grouched, turning around and going to sit on top of the nearest book. He fluttered his wings and straightened out his netted tunic, then folded his arms. He unfolded them again to sign, _If you’re going to go to the Spring Festival, Charlie, you’re better off looking like a human than a witch. Your robe is fine. Even if you do look like a walking rainbow._

_I think we should all go,_ Mary signed, in that authoritative tone that reminded everyone she was the oldest and often the most sensible person in the room. _Charlie has an invitation, Dean has an invitation. I don’t see why Sam and I couldn’t sneak ourselves in using one of those extra pockets Dean’s so fond of adding to Charlie’s robes._

Dean buzzed about excitedly. _Do you mean it? I can still go?_

_Well, the invitation the Queen gave you is still valid, isn’t it?_ Mary gave Dean a knowing smile. _I know you’ve grown far too fond of your tailor friend, Dean. Unless we see him again you’re only going to drive yourself mad until you desecrate yet another sacred rule._

Dean sat down on a cotton spool, a wobbly smile on his face. He felt elated, not to mention relieved. When he’d left Castiel’s shop that morning he was so sure he would never see his friend again. Now something he’d always suspected had been made explicitly clear: his entire family was as willing to break the most valued rules of the fairies as he was himself.

Mid-morning came around, and the front door of Charlie’s cottage slammed shut. She had her invitation dangling from her mouth and her satchel was slung over one shoulder, her bright hair flouncing about her shoulders as she hurried away from home. She snatched the invitation from her mouth and ran with it clutched in her fist. “Late!” she called back to Dean, Sam and Mary, who buzzed in her wake. “Always late!”

Mary reached to touch Dean’s shoulder in mid-flight, and Dean looked over at her, seeing her blonde plait flowing straight out behind her as they rushed along. _Let’s speed this up a bit,_ Mary suggested, and Dean nodded.

Dean touched Sam’s shoulder and repeated the suggestion, smiling when Sam nodded.

On an unspoken count of three, Dean, Sam and Mary swooped down and plucked Charlie off the forest floor by the shoulders of her robes. Charlie shrieked, legs kicking about as she tried to run, but the ground had given way. The tops of the trees whooshed past as she was carried up, up, up, and Dean laughed, always taking delight in a good flight.

“I told you!” Charlie shouted, letting her legs hang straight. “I told you I hated this! Witches don’t fly! Witches keep their feet firmly on the ground at all times!”

Since all their hands were busy, the fairies couldn’t signal each other, but a friendly roll of Dean’s eyes was enough to make Mary laugh. Sam chuckled too, and they flew on over the trees, heading straight for the castle in the distance.

After nearly twenty minutes of steady approach, the three fairies came in to land, dropping Charlie directly into a loose pile of hay. She squeaked, swimming to the edge and tumbling out across the ground. Dean floated to her shoulder, grinning when she batted at him like a bothersome fly.

“You,” Charlie panted, “are the worst friends,” _huff_ , “I’ve ever had.”

_We’re the **only** friends you’ve ever had,_ Dean remarked, making Charlie swat at him again.

Sam perched on Charlie’s knee. _Not to mention that without us, you might’ve just arrived here in time for the fireworks. The festivities have already started – look!_

Dean looked at the same time Charlie did, and he gasped in awe as he watched a man juggle with fire, a woman walk with live bees crawling on every inch of her skin, and a bear standing on its hind legs to roar.

“With all this going on, no wonder nobody noticed a rainbow-coloured witch dropping out of the sky and landing in the castle gardens,” Charlie said, standing up and brushing hay off her robes.

_You’re not a witch today,_ Mary reminded Charlie, hovering in front of her. _You’re a magician._

“Pretend magic, right, right,” Charlie muttered, following the three fairies as they bobbed their way ahead, all of them still in awe of the madness set up here. “Make flowers come out of my sleeves but don’t make them grow on the vine. Gotcha.”

_I want to find Cas,_ Dean said, already agitated. Everything happening around here was exciting and he wanted to take the time to enjoy it, but he couldn’t until he knew his friend was here. _Mom, Sammy – you stay with Charlie, I’m going to go find him._

_We should stick together,_ Mary warned, gripping the satin cuff of Dean’s tunic to keep him from rushing away. _There are a lot of humans around, and I don’t trust any of them._

_You can trust Cas,_ Dean assured her. He freed his sleeve, looking about the sunny gardens with its flourishing hedges and ivy-draped trellises, hoping to see a clue that might lead him to the tailor of Fairy Ridge.

“You three go,” Charlie said, waving a hand. “I’m a grown-up, I can handle a little royalty. Besides, I bypassed the main gate; the guards didn’t check my invitation. I can call it a magician’s trick, but if they send people with crossbows after me, I’d better not have any fairies hovering around me at the time.”

Sam saluted Charlie, and Dean followed suit, Mary only smiled, then led their little troupe directly upwards.

Dean and his family hovered high above the grounds, mapping out the area. Sellers’ stalls were over by the rose gardens, the main stage was by the vineyard. There was an area where lords and ladies were busy bidding on impressive-looking horses, and there was some sort of kerfuffle happening on the drawbridge.

_There,_ Sam signed, pointing to a sky-blue blob that emerged into view on the drawbridge. _That’s the Queen._

_Good._ Dean relaxed, shoulders slumping, as his wings carried on flapping too fast to see. _If the Queen is here then that means she stopped by at Cas’ shop this morning. He would’ve ridden with her in her carriage, that detail was on the invitation._

_What would Cas have said to her?_ Sam asked, a small frown between his eyebrows. _The Queen would’ve expected you to be with him this morning. Would Cas have come here without you?_ He tucked his waist-length hair behind his ears, trying to tame it while the wind blew it about.

Dean hung sadly, peering down at the ground as he sloped a few inches lower. _I don’t know,_ he signed, truthfully. _He was proud of what he made. If I wasn’t there to take half the credit, I’m sure he would’ve done the sensible thing and told the Queen he was kidding when he said I helped._

_Humans!_ Sam signed dramatically. _This is why our ancestors withdrew from their company, Dean. Not only do they fight tooth and nail to enslave us, they take all the credit when it’s due to us!_

_Excuse me, Mr. Double Standards,_ Dean gestured in his brother’s direction. _Would you rather Cas insisted a fairy did half the work and have himself committed for madness? Nobody believes in fairies any more! Or worse, do you wish he’d caged me up and presented me to the Queen and all her subjects as a real, living specimen of faeriefolk? That wouldn’t just be bad news for me, it would be bad for all of us._

_Well then,_ Sam raised his eyebrows. _Maybe it was a good thing he freed you from your obligation when he did. You’re spared the public humiliation._

The reminder bothered Dean. He wanted to stay with Cas, he wanted to help him make clothes for as long as Dean was able. He was grateful he was freed in time to visit his family before the festival, but part of him ached for the satisfaction that came from having someone to devote himself to. That was what fairies were meant to do, traditionally, and it was the only thing that made Dean feel complete and fulfilled and happy—

_I see him!_ Mary signed with huge strokes, her shout cutting through Dean’s musings. _Over by the vegetables!_

Dean narrowed his eyes, following where Mary pointed. His heart filled with hope as he saw a cobalt blue form travelling between other bright colours. None of the other colours were so vivid, and nobody else’s clothes were as fine. Charlie had made the most splendid of fabrics with her magic, the patterned velvet a hundred-thousand times more extravagant than the ragged bedsheet it had been before. The hope in Dean’s heart turned to glee as he swept lower, heading straight for Castiel.

_Wait!_ Mary flew in front of Dean, stopping him before he even came within twenty feet of the ground. _I know you trust him, but I don’t._

_Don’t you trust my word?_ Dean gazed at his mother with hurt in his eyes. _He wouldn’t betray us, not ever. He wouldn’t even kill a mouse with a trap!_

Mary held him steady. _Let us hide first. We’ll see when it’s safe, and then we’ll come out._

Dean sagged, catching sight of Sam’s wary expression too. It made him ache that they were both so full of mistrust, just like the hundreds of other fairies who had never left the woods in all their lives.

_Okay, fine,_ Dean agreed, begrudgingly.

They flew down to the table where a man stood to sell vegetables, big turnips and bowls of cherries, leafy radishes and blushing apricots. Mary set her feet on the wood first, her hands reaching to touch a tray of asparagus, all tied up in bunches with string.

Dean and Sam hung behind her, eyes on the people wandering in front of the stall. Nobody was stopping to buy anything, they were too interested in the performance on the main stage.

_Charlie’s up there,_ Dean signed, feeling a swell of pride in his heart. He couldn’t hear what Charlie was saying, but he watched as she produced a hat from her pocket – a pocket which Dean knew contained nothing but pebbles, plant seeds and a handkerchief. She then pulled a grass snake out of the hat. Dean bristled in surprise, then laughed and applauded with the crowd as the snake was transfigured into a colourful streamer and scattered over the heads of everyone watching.

_Find your tailor, Dean,_ Mary reminded him, nudging him in the side.

_He’s not **my** tailor,_ Dean harrumphed, but nonetheless scanned what he could see of the crowd. No flashes of blue leapt out at him for the moment.

_What is he then, if he’s not your tailor?_ Mary asked conversationally, a sneaky shine in her eyes.

_I see what you’re getting at, and it’s not that,_ Dean signed firmly. _I’ve only known him a few weeks, our friendship isn’t strong enough to warrant a lifetime bond, or whatever you wanna call it._

_How do you know?_ Sam asked, smirking.

Dean smacked Sam in the shoulder. _Mind your own business, dollop-head!_

_Language!_ Mary snapped.

Dean rolled his eyes. _If he stopped prying into my personal life then he wouldn’t need to be called names._

_Sam asked a fair question,_ Mary signed, pretending she was watching the crowd, but really all her attention was on Dean. _How **would** you know Cas isn’t the one you’re meant to aid for the rest of your life?_

_Uh, how about, because he already freed me?_ Dean scoffed. It was obvious.

_Ah-ah,_ Mary smiled, waggling a finger. _All part of the process. The strongest bonds are formed when both parties **choose** each other’s company. You were treated well until you were freed, but then, what if you returned of your own accord? Your tailor cared for you, then set you free. Would he accept you if you returned under no obligation to help him? Would he want you just to keep him company?_

Dean thought he had an answer ready, but it dissolved on his tongue. For the first time ever, he felt a deep, deep desire to be accepted back. He’d never ached this way after being freed by the other humans he’d assisted. Bobby, Kevin, Missouri. He loved them all in a way, but leaving them hadn’t created the same strange emptiness in the pit of his stomach as he felt now.

_Mom,_ Sam signed in small movements. He looked at Mary, then at Dean, then back to Mary. _Look at his face, Mom. I think Dean’s found The One!_

Dean huffed, shoving Sam out past the leeks and into the daylight. Sam laughed, but then his expression melted from his face: a shadow loomed over him, blotting out the sun. A human had seen him.

_Sam!_ Dean darted forward, grabbing Sam and pulling him back under cover.

_Too late,_ Sam panted, wide-eyed in fear. _I’ve been sighted, I’ve blown our cover._

_It was my fault, I shouldn’t have pushed you—_

_Shut up!_ Mary waved a hand, stilling both her sons. _We need to move! This way._

Mary led them around the leeks and towards the potatoes, but the canopy of cauliflowers over them rose up, exposing the three of them to the sun. Dean covered his eyes and looked about, unable to see who had lifted the cauliflower.

Before he could determine anything, a large glass jar descended over his head and trapped him. He set his hands on the cold wall, breath coming too fast. He saw ahead that Sam was trapped too. Mary took off but was swatted with a rolled-up paper, and Dean gasped in fear as he saw her drop to the ground like a stone. There was no use signing, Sam wasn’t looking his way. Dean could only gape, horrified, watching a human woman with a grin on her face bend down and pick up Dean’s mother by the wings.

Dean started shoving at the jar, heaving and pushing with all his strength. Fairies were strong creatures, they were stronger than anyone would think possible for their size. But the jar wouldn’t budge. Dean couldn’t get it to tip, he couldn’t get it to inch forward even a short way.

It must be enchanted somehow, Dean realised. He knew of nobody who could enchant things aside from Charlie. She would never do this; Dean didn’t understand how this could’ve happened.

A muffled voice made its way through the glass, loud and impossible to ignore.

“Welcome to Hell, fairies,” warbled the voice. “My name is Rowena, and I’ll be your captor for – ooh, the next century, let’s say.”

Dean tumbled to the bottom of the jar as he was tilted and lifted, both of the witch’s hands holding the glass. A lid poked with holes covered up the only exit, and Dean was well and truly trapped. Rowena set Dean’s jar down on the wood. Dean peered through the glass and saw Sam being locked in too, then Mary.

Dean banged on the glass, but it did nothing but bruise his wrists and make his palms sting.

“Now,” Rowena said in an accent that sounded almost floral, “from now on, you three are going to be doing my bidding. And I must warn you, it’s not going to be _at all_ pleasant. I do love fairies. Your kind is in _cred_ ibly delicious. But, I’ll admit, I can maintain some semblance of self-control. You do as I say, and,” Rowena flicked Sam’s jar with a hard fingernail, “I won’t eat you. How does that sound?”

Dean slammed his hands against the jar and glared as hard as he could, not for the first time wishing he could shout aloud all the insults he’d ever heard of.

Alas, helpless, he and his family were carried off through the gardens, consigned to watching people part either side of Rowena without noticing anything was wrong. The witch wore long black skirts like witches were meant to, and though her face was pretty, her smile was a wicked one. She spoke to the fairies as she carried them towards the castle. “It was lovely of Queen Abaddon to organise this festival, wasn’t it? Same every year. Flowers, jubilation. It gets a little tiresome after a while. Me and her are good friends, you know. Aye, we go back a good ten centuries. Maybe fifteen, I forget. All queens could do with a resident witch in their staff, don’t you think? She told me about you, Dean, how you helped a certain tailor with his stitching and his sewing. And she said to me, isn’t it time we had some fairies around the castle again? We used to hang your kind from the ceiling in cages. Our halls never looked so magical as they did back then!”

Dean saw a cobalt blue movement in the crowd, and a flare of hope overrode his sickened feeling. But he only managed to set his palms on the glass before the blue of Castiel’s waistcoat was hidden between other colours. Dean’s hope sagged like a tired pair of wings. Once he and his family were inside the castle, Charlie wouldn’t know where to look. Castiel didn’t even know Dean was missing.

The drawbridge approached, and Rowena’s pointy heels click-clacked on the wood as she carried the jars towards the castle.

Dean wondered if this would be the last time he and his family ever saw sunlight.

⧫ ◊ ⧫ ◊ ⧫

Charlie spotted the man in blue the minute she stepped off the stage. He looked like he was halfway dead inside, but he still managed to smile.

“That was a beautiful performance,” he said. “I didn’t know frogs were so versatile.”

Charlie pulled a frog from her pocket and gave it to the man, wrapped up in a handkerchief. “Happy birthday.”

Castiel frowned, peering at Charlie with piercing blue eyes. “It’s not my birthday.”

“I know,” Charlie said lightly. “But I’m keeping up appearances. Magicians are funny and strange and kooky as kooky can get, and I should be all of those things or someone will notice I’m perfectly sane and accuse me of witchery.”

Castiel stared at the frog, which ribbeted, and then became a pebble. Castiel jumped in surprise, but Charlie chuckled. “Most of my enchantments don’t last long,” she said. “A few seconds, really. When I made the fabric for the clothes you’re wearing now, thankfully that one stuck.”

Castiel moved his startled gaze back to Charlie, his lips parted. “You’re not a magician. You _are_ a witch!”

Charlie flushed hot. “I’m not a witch! There’s no such thing as witches any more.”

“People say the same about fairies, but there’s been a fairy living with me for almost a month.”

“You should keep your voice down when you say things like that,” Charlie chuckled nervously.

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Why? Because someone like yourself might think I’m perfectly sane and accuse me of holding fairies hostage?”

“No, because other people might hear you,” Charlie said. “I’m Charlie. I’m a friend of Dean’s.”

Castiel started to smile. “I suspected it was you. Dean told me about you.”

“Dean told me about _you_ ,” Charlie said, taking Castiel’s elbow in her hand and leading him away from the stage. “He’s really taken a shine to you, if you know what I mean.”

“A shine? Is that something fairies do?”

“What? No, I mean he likes you.” Charlie held Castiel’s curious eye. “You know. _Like_ -likes you.”

“He’s been an excellent friend to me,” Castiel said, a smile pulling crinkles around his sad eyes. “I liked him too.”

Charlie stopped walking as they neared the flower garden, and Castiel stopped with her. “You sound as if you don’t like him any more.”

“Well, he left,” Castiel shrugged. “I imagine it’s him who doesn’t like _me_ any more.”

Charlie scoffed. “He likes you, Cas. Honestly. He left because you gave him clothes. That ends a fairy’s obligation, and they’re free to leave.”

“Obligation,” Castiel said under his breath, mouth moving in near-silence. His gaze turned distant, and he looked spooked for a moment. “That was the chapter of _Communicating with FaerieFolk_ I skipped. Dean told me the next one would be more interesting.”

“Of course he said that!” Charlie tutted. “The more humans he devotes himself to, the clingier he gets. Being freed is always the last thing he wants, but it always comes too soon for his liking.”

Castiel looked curious. “How— How many people, may I ask? How many humans has he... devoted himself to?”

“You would be the fourth, I think – but don’t think that makes you any less important. He’s never had a lifetime bond with anyone else. He didn’t say it in so many words, but I got the impression he would gladly throw himself back at you.”

“Throw—? For what?”

Charlie sighed in exasperation. “Didn’t you read _any_ important chapters? Once a fairy is freed, if the bond still calls to him – as it obviously did today, by the way – then you’re eligible to share a lifetime bond with him. He’d be a companion rather than an assistant. His mother Mary is that for me. She’s the greatest friend I’ve ever had.”

Castiel blinked at Charlie, his mouth still hanging open. “So you’re saying Dean and I – we have this bond? A... sort of... profound bond?”

“You could put it like that.” Charlie smiled. “Where is he, by the way? I thought they’d have found you by now.”

“Who? Dean? Wait, Dean’s _here_?”

“Are you kidding me?! You’d think you’d be quicker on the uptake, Dean was going on and on and _on_ about how smart you are.”

“I’m flattered but— Where is he?” Castiel started looking around, right and left, up and down. He even checked his pockets, then leaned closer, and Charlie allowed him to check her pockets too.

“They shouldn’t have been gone this long,” Charlie said. A thought came into focus inside her head, and she felt uneasy. “Something bad might’ve happened. And I think I might know what. I’ll try a location spell.” She pulled a flint rock from her pocket. “There’s nothing around here to hide fairies like there is in the forest. I should be able to find them.” The flint’s sharp point faced forwards on her flat palm, and with a magical thought, she enchanted it to track down fairies.

The flint spun in Charlie’s hand and aimed itself directly towards the castle.

“In there?” Castiel squinted. “We’re not allowed in there. I tried to take a look earlier but a guard threatened to throw me in the lake.”

“To Hell with the guards,” Charlie said, shoving people out of the way as she marched towards the drawbridge. “I want my goddamn fairies back.”

⧫ ◊ ⧫ ◊ ⧫

Dean’s jar clopped down onto a wooden desk in a gloomy room in the basement. He looked to his right and saw his brother and his mother set down beside him. Mary was still unconscious, and Sam looked as frantic as Dean. Dean caught Sam’s eye and gestured to Mary, signing, _Is she injured?_

Sam took a look, but turned back, shaking his head. _I can’t tell. She looks asleep._

Gnawing at his lip in worry, Dean turned his attention to finding a way to escape. The room outside his jar was shadowed in dark brown, the darkest corners framed with cobwebs. A fireplace crackled off to the side, and long wooden desks lined every edge of the room.

On the desks there were bottles and bubbling cauldrons, stacks of herbs, and cloths laid out with half-prepared hex bags.

This was a witch’s lair.

“So!” Rowena chirped, spinning dramatically and making her robe swish, “Here’s how it’s going to work.” She raised a finger, about to explain, but then she seemed to change her mind. “Oh, how about I just show you?”

She went forward and took hold of Sam’s jar. Dean slammed his hands on the inside of his own jar, but aside from making the jar rattle about, his efforts did nothing. Rowena unscrewed the lid of Sam’s jar and reached inside with a long finger, scratching his skin with her nail.

_Sam!_ Dean signed, hopelessly.

Rowena retracted her finger. Sam had previously been cowering at the bottom of the jar, but now he followed Rowena’s finger up, fluttering his wings until he hovered. Rowena twirled her finger, and Sam flew where she pointed.

“Oh, my old bones are so tired,” Rowena lamented, the back of her hand tossed up to brush her forehead. “Do get me my slippers, won’t you, fairy?”

Dean watched in astonishment as Sam flew to a corner of the room and retrieved a pair of moccasins, as black and night and dotted with stars. He set them down at Rowena’s feet, then helped her change out of her pointy heels.

Dean’s heart raced. Sam was under a spell and Dean had no idea how to break it. Unless Charlie arrived soon, Dean himself and maybe even Mary would be under the same spell, and they might never be able to escape.

“Good, now; very good,” Rowena said, a smug smile on her face. She admired her shoes, then held out a finger for Sam to perch on. His wings fluttered until they hung still. “What a good fairy you are.”

Sam’s eyes looked glazed, his face expressionless.

“And now for your friends,” Rowena said, waving Sam away. The witch turned for Mary’s jar, and with a flick of a finger, Mary stirred into consciousness.

_Mom!_ Dean signed, banging on the jar to get his mother’s attention. Mary looked his way, and Dean only had a split second to communicate with her. _Don’t let her touch you! She’ll cut you and put you under her spell!_

Mary was too groggy to understand. Rowena’s claw was already reaching into the jar, and Mary flinched – and then it was over. Mary flew out of the jar the same way Sam had, in a daze, eyes glassy.

Dean curled up on the far side of his jar, arms around his knees, his mind burning with a wildfire of unspoken pleas. _Please let Cas find us. Please let Charlie save us. Please give me the strength to fight this so I can get us all out of here._

There was nothing Dean could do as Rowena took hold of his jar last, unscrewing the lid. Dean was prepared to bite or scratch before Rowena could cut him, but his plan was immediately foiled: she tipped him into her palm with some force, disorienting him thoroughly.

“Sweet, tiny thing,” she crooned. “Look at these lovely clothes.”

Dean got his bearings, and without pause, he launched himself away and flew towards the door they’d come in— He felt a yank on his wings, and the muscles in his back screamed in pain; he dropped to the floor like a swatted fly.

Bruised and disoriented again, he tried to crawl away from the hand that descended. Too slow. Rowena plucked him up and held him in her palm, a wandering finger skimming the front of his tunic.

“Fine satin, expensive silk. Goodness. You little minx, I see you found yourself a good one. Unfortunately for you, you’re already freed. That bond might’ve protected you from my spell, you know.”

Dean gasped as his jacket was torn by Rowena’s magic. It fell into her palm in shreds. His hand grasped a thread of it, not yet believing it was destroyed. But then came the claws again, and the tunic fell from his shoulders the way a petal fell from an aging plant. He was now bare-chested, and he could see his own hurried breaths moving his ribs.

One claw dragged down the side of his thigh, tearing the cloth without magic, just a slow and jerky slice through cloth fibres. A feeling of loss and utter hopelessness took over Dean. He was nearly naked now, back to the state the fairies were born, back to belonging to no-one. Ever since his first obligation ended, he had never been truly naked.

“Oh, what’s this?” Rowena asked, as the last scraps of Dean’s trousers fluttered off her palm and to the floor. “You’re wearing underwear!”

Dean didn’t sign aloud, but he shouted in his head, _Cas made them for me! Don’t you touch them!_

He tried to hit Rowena, he tried to kick her hand and bite her and scratch her, but he was only small, and with her magic, Rowena was so much stronger than him.

“He dressed you in ladies’ clothes,” Rowena said, with undoubtable amusement. “I wouldn’t have thought you were the type to wear such _gor_ geous pink bloomers. Aye, but then again,” Rowena snipped one side of Dean’s underwear, “you’re not human. I always imagined you fairies have some... underdeveloped sense of self. Tut-tut, fairy; you aren’t _woman_ enough to wear something this pretty.”

With one last wrench, half of Dean’s bloomers were torn away. Only the top half remained to cover his most private parts; in a second he would be bare. He shut his eyes and braced himself for the inevitable. Rowena’s hand descended, the warmth of her skin radiating over Dean, the point of her nail poking into the waistband of his bloomers.

At exactly that moment, there came a thump from outside the door.

Rowena nearly dropped Dean. “What was that?”

Dean made use of her distraction to fly away, but his wings were still injured, and he buzzed straight down to the floor at an angle. He knelt forward on the cold stone, breathing hard, feeling bare, wishing he could summon strength from somewhere deep within.

The door to Rowena’s room burst open, and someone entered with force.

“You!” Charlie shouted. Dean looked up, his heart doing flips in his chest. “You took my fairies!”

Rowena stooped at the waist to pick up Dean by his wings. “They’re not your fairies any more,” she crooned. Even Charlie’s reactive movement was not quick enough; Dean felt a slice on his back, blood welling and trickling onto his skin. He felt magic overtaking him, healing his wings and the fresh gash, making him stronger than he ever had been before.

Rowena sighed in satisfaction, seeing Charlie’s look of horror at the same time as Dean did. “Oh, faaaiiiirriies!” Rowena sang. “Take this mediocre excuse for a witch down, won’t you?”

Dean raised his arm to reach for Sam and Mary: the two of them were advancing towards Charlie, looking fully intent on harming her. Dean realised a moment later _he_ was meant to be doing the same. But he wasn’t. Was he not under Rowena’s control?

If he waited a second longer, Rowena might notice he wasn’t under her spell. He took off from her hand and flew slowly towards Charlie, putting on the same blank expression as Sam and Mary wore. Charlie looked panicked now, her hands raised in defense. She was scared she would hurt them, the three creatures who she cared about most in the world. Dean hated that she’d been put in this position, just as he hated that Mary and Sam would be forced to hurt Charlie.

Charlie set her jaw, making up her mind. Rather than directing a magical blow towards Dean, Mary or Sam, she threw a fireball at Rowena.

Rowena cackled when the fireball died out before it could reach her. “Silly girl! There’s good reason you failed all my classes at school, and this is one of them! You’re too afraid to hurt anyone!”

Sam had reached Charlie by now and he had taken hold of a lock of her hair, pulling so hard that Charlie shrieked, eyes watering. Mary took the other side, and Charlie nearly snapped her neck as she was pulled about.

Dean had to do something. He put his head down and zoomed forward, cannoning into his brother and smacking him against the nearest wall. Then he rounded on his mother, sickened by what he had to do. He shot at her too, pushing her clear of the room. She was determined, and she pushed back. Dean pushed with all his might, trying to keep Mary out of harm’s way.

“Dean,” came a voice.

Dean was distracted, and in that moment he lost Mary: she flew past and buzzed straight back into Rowena’s room.

Castiel stood in the shadows, revealing himself as he stepped into slanted daylight. He was round-eyed with concern, but Dean could only smile. He rushed to touch Castiel’s cheek with his hand, then beckoned him urgently to the witch’s lair. _Come on! Help us win the battle!_

Castiel’s jaw set firm, and he nodded. From his pocket he pulled a pebble. He clenched his hand around it, and followed Dean into the gloom.

Chaos reigned in Rowena’s lair. Fire had started to crawl up the walls, spreading from the fireplace. The ceiling was glowing purple, the floor was crawling with movement that looked like molten tar. Blistering heat seared Dean’s skin, making his eyes water.

Charlie threw magic at Mary to keep her away, then at Rowena to quell her power. Dean could see none of it was working: Rowena looked mildly entertained by the whole thing.

Dean checked with Castiel, and Castiel checked with Charlie, who nodded. There had been no time to formulate a plan, but they had made one anyway. Castiel hurled the pebble at Rowena with all his strength. As it flew, Charlie enchanted it, and it became a dagger.

Charlie flinched. Her brief moment of self-doubt transformed the dagger into a shoe instead.

The shoe hit Rowena on the head, and she harrumphed. “That wasn’t very polite, my dear.”

Still, Charlie seemed to have gotten an idea. She smirked, then signed quickly to Dean. _Her shoes! I see them, over by the wall!_

Dean glanced over, and without questioning Charlie’s instruction, he darted over there and picked up both pointy-heeled shoes at once, one in each hand. Rowena was busy forming a lightning bolt between her hands, so perhaps she hadn’t noticed Charlie’s signing. Charlie ignored Rowena, taking the shoes from Dean.

Dean let Charlie get on with enchanting the shoes, and turned his attention to Castiel, who was leaping about, protecting Charlie from Sam and Mary. Under a spell, they were not as smart as they usually were. They bumped into Castiel’s hands and only tried again, and he kept them away with relative ease.

Dean took hold of Sam’s hand and Mary’s hand, and he flew away as fast as he could. He flew and flew until he had dragged them both out of the room. Then he let go and shot back inside at double speed. Castiel’s timing was perfect; he slammed the door, and he pressed his back to it, keeping Mary and Sam outside. Dean pushed beside him, feeling the door strain under the force of his family’s barrage.

For a moment, Dean and Castiel made eye contact. Castiel was as terrified as Dean, but they smiled together. Neither of them had ever experienced so much excitement all at once, and if by some miracle all this somehow led to their triumph today, Dean felt better knowing that his bond with Castiel had aided their success. Without that ultimate bond, Dean would have fallen prey to Rowena’s power, just like Sam and Mary.

“You can’t hurt me with a pair of shoes,” Rowena chuckled, her fingers shooting tiny lightning bolts at Charlie, slowing the progress of her enchantments. “What do you expect to accomplish, darling? As soon as you’ve burnt out your power, you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to take your precious fairies, and I’m going to have them lead me to the others in the forest. You can’t stop me, you know. Witches are most powerful when we have fairies working alongside us! Nobody else in the coven will come to your aid, they all know you’re a failure.”

“That may be true,” Charlie said, making the shoes glow red, then purple. She had a fire in her eyes, so fierce it scared Dean a little. “But I don’t need another witch to take you down.”

With a burst of flame, the enchanted shoes soared towards Rowena at incredible speed. One shot right past her ear – despite everything, Charlie’s aim wasn’t great – but the second shoe smacked into Rowena’s forehead, completely unexpected by her. At first Dean thought it was simply a shoe thrown very hard, but it was so much more than that.

The shoe’s heel sank into Rowena like she was as soft as pudding, rings of magical light emerging from the wound. Rowena’s expression had become one of shock, but she didn’t get a chance to feel pain; the light left her eyes and she died where she stood. She fell in a flump of clothing, her body vanished into nothing.

Just like that, it was over.

Rowena’s death called a ceasefire: the temperature in the room became bearable, the floor solidified, Sam and Mary stopped trying to force their way in, and Dean felt Castiel slump down the door in exhaustion.

Charlie covered her mouth with both hands and sobbed. She’d just killed someone, and like anyone who was ultimately kind at heart, she was horrified.

Dean was in a state of shock. Shivering, he flew in bounces and unsteady flitters over to Charlie, and he perched on her shoulder.

“I... I did it,” Charlie said, her voice shaking. “I _did_ it. Rowena underestimated me, but I did it!”

Dean heard Castiel open the door, and Sam and Mary flew inside. When Dean looked over, he saw Mary standing on Castiel’s bent knee, signing madly to Sam, _I fought it, I resisted so hard! I thought of Charlie, and our bond, but I couldn’t fight her power off!_

Sam glanced over at Dean, looking even worse for wear than Mary. Without him signing a word, Dean could tell his brother had been taken over completely by Rowena’s spell. Without a sharing bond to another human, Sam had been unable to fight it. Dean nodded to him, hoping he would realise he was forgiven, as there was nothing to forgive.

Before anyone could get too comfortable, their attention was snatched by a sudden sound, a scritchy-scratchy hiss coming from the fireplace. Dean looked, and his eyes widened as a plume of red steam erupted from the embers littering the floor. A humanoid shape formed, tall and graceful, swirls of hair descending from its shoulders like ice vapour.

The witch was back, and on her red lips she wore a devilish grin. Dean’s heart beat in his throat, his wings locked to his shoulders out of fear. The ghost of Rowena lifted one arm – Charlie darted backwards, but a red zap of light shot forth before she could escape. It missed Charlie, but hit Dean.

Somehow, Rowena must’ve figured out how to use her magic to take Dean over. Now Dean knew what Sam and Mary had felt. Still aware, still conscious, he felt his face going blank, his posture erect. His wings fluttered, a desire to do the witch’s bidding overtaking him.

There was so much to do. Leading Rowena to the home of fairies was the grand plan, but Dean couldn’t get there until Charlie was out of the way. Dean rounded on her, aware his eyes were glowing red.

⧫ ◊ ⧫ ◊ ⧫

“Dean,” Charlie whispered. “Oh, no, Dean, don’t do this.”

Over by the door, Castiel staggered to his feet, Mary and Sam hovering at his shoulders.

_Nothing can break that spell now,_ Mary signed, as frightened as she was stoic. _My baby..._

Dean flittered closer to Charlie, a menacing jerk of a movement. Charlie backed away, retreating until she backed into the wall. “Dean, please,” she begged. “She’s just a witch, it’s just magic! It’s not part of you! It’s like a coat, you only need to shake it off and you’ll be free!”

Dean raised his tiny arm, ready to strike. Castiel guessed that Dean’s strength was newly infused with some of Rowena’s magic; he was really going to hurt Charlie.

“Don’t!” Castiel shouted, stepping in front of Charlie. “Dean, she’s your family, you wouldn’t harm her.”

A chill descended Castiel’s body as Dean’s red eyes locked onto him instead. The ghost of Rowena was merely a lit shadow in the background; Dean was her puppet, he was all that mattered here.

Dean’s hand formed a claw, and he slashed at Castiel’s cheek. Castiel’s hand leapt to his jaw, feeling a thin trickle of blood drip over his fingers. The pain only made him more determined. He stepped forward, surprising Dean into backing up a short way.

“This isn’t you,” Castiel said, with all the determination he could muster. “Dean, you’re the kindest person I’ve ever known. You can fight this. You _must_ fight this!”

Dean came at him again, snarling in silence as he attacked Castiel’s cheek again. He was strong for someone so small; Castiel cried out, bending to clutch his wound.

“Dean,” he rasped, forcing himself to stand again. “Dean...”

Another blow, another shout from Castiel.

“Dean, you must _stop_! I know you. I’ve cared for you. You care for me too! I promise you, you fight this and everything will be okay! You’ll be all right! You just need to—”

A slice along his cheekbone came too fast, and he sobbed in pain, wanting more than anything to back away, to cower among the others, his friends. He wished he could run, but he couldn’t leave Dean like this.

“Dean,” Castiel said, putting every ounce of feeling he had into the name. That name was precious to him, like the fairy it belonged to. “You’re— You’re family. We need you. Everyone here, we all need you.” He pulled in a breath, sensing a slight falter in Dean’s danger-red glare. Another confession fell from Castiel’s mouth in a whisper, “ _I_ need you. I— I love you.”

Despite the success Dean had brought him, Castiel’s need was not simply for the creative ideas the fairy provided, but for his companionship. Castiel had toyed with the idea for several weeks, but now it was certain truth. Dean kept Castiel from being sad and lonely – but he also made him _happy_.

Castiel held Dean’s eye, and said the words again. “I love you. And I want you to fight this, Dean. Come back to me.”

Such important words.

The red light faded from Dean’s eyes, and with it went his drive to attack. He hung limply in the air, gazing at Castiel with his mouth slightly open, his eyes filled with tears.

“Dean,” Castiel breathed.

Dean rushed to Castiel’s face and embraced him, curling against his injured cheek. Castiel winced, but Dean’s hands... Dean’s hands soothed him. Healed him.

More magic. More wonderful magic.

Castiel didn’t even notice when Rowena’s ghost evaporated, but when Dean finally fell back, Castiel took a look around and saw they were alone. Even Charlie and the others had left.

Dean held one of Castiel’s fingers and buzzed forwards, tugging him out into the hallway. There, Charlie waited with Mary and Sam, stunned looks on their faces.

“That went better than expected, didn’t it?” Charlie said quietly.

Castiel gave Dean a fond look, at a loss for words. Dean smiled back, his face a mask of relief.

Their hands still held on to each other.

With a huff, Charlie glanced at the others. “I think it’s time we got out of here,” she said.

They didn’t need to be told twice. Checking one last time that they were all in one piece, the five of them tore out of the castle as fast as they could without alerting suspicion.

Castiel and Charlie kept their heads down as they headed through the crowds of people enjoying the festival. The guards looked at them discerningly when they neared the gate, but Charlie slipped her arm through Castiel’s and pretended they were off for a private stroll. It seemed to work; the guards harrumphed and looked the other way.

The moment they were out of sight of anyone else, Charlie and Castiel let go of each other and bolted into a run. The fairies emerged from their pockets and followed behind, every one of them anxious to get away.

They ran and ran, Dean taking the lead as he knew the safest paths, he’d explored the forest so many times in his childhood. He took too many risks, the elders always said. He was too bold when it came to humans, too eager to reignite a tradition the faeriefolk had long ago left behind. While the observation wasn’t wrong, he loved what all his risk-taking had given him.

“Where are you leading us?” Castiel asked, puffing as he jogged to keep up. “Where are we going?”

“I recognise this path! We’re heading for where the fairies live,” Charlie answered, excited. “I only went there once, when Mary and I were granted our bond! I could never find it after!”

“Why? Why are we going there?”

Dean peered back over his shoulder, smiling as he flew, then he looked over at Sam and Mary. They shared the same determined grin. Without any of them having to say it, it had become apparent that the bond Dean had with Castiel was stronger than most, or even _all_ human-fairy bonds. Why else was Dean able to fight off Rowena’s spells? Even Mary, despite her eternal bond to Charlie, had not been immune.

Castiel and Dean had not yet shared a bonding ceremony, but it was time now.

Oh, yes, it was time.

⧫ ◊ ⧫ ◊ ⧫

They came to a clearing, where the tree branches rose up high and created a cathedral of boughs, a monumentally large space, filled with dazzling sunlight which drifted about on sparkling stripes of dust. Twirls of tiny leaves cruised through the sanctuary in helixes, whistling in magical tunes on a sweet-smelling breeze.

Charlie, Castiel, and the three fairies all entered together, moving with slow steps and gentle but excited flutters of wings. They were tiny in comparison to this place. Mere ants in a dome of unimaginable beauty.

“This is where you come from?” Castiel asked, breathless in awe. “Why would you ever _leave_?”

Charlie glanced towards Mary, smiling. “A mother does her best to look out for her children. Sometimes breaking tradition is a better way to go.”

Dean floated on ahead, upwards, spinning and dancing into the open space. Sam followed, and they played on an eddy of air, following the currents and flying along the stream of glittering leaves. Mary couldn’t help herself – she laughed and followed her sons, sharing their elation at returning home.

Castiel was certain without having to be told: there was great magic in this place.

Charlie took Castiel’s arm, and they clung to each other as they walked forward, taking in the view. With the tops of the trees so high above, it made Castiel feel like the leaf-strewn ground was dropping away, like he was getting shorter and might simply disappear into the soil.

The three fairies swooped down, and Castiel raised a hand so Dean could perch. Mary went to Charlie’s shoulder, and Sam hovered ahead. Sam looked concerned, and he kept glancing about.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asked Sam, before peering at Dean.

Dean glanced at Sam, then Mary. _It’s empty,_ he signed.

Castiel frowned. “What do you mean, empty?”

_There’s nobody here but us._

Castiel’s eyes flicked to Sam, who nodded confirmation. Charlie and Castiel exchanged glances, sharing an uneasy feeling.

_They must’ve left,_ Mary signed, then stroked her long blonde plait in quick strokes, trying to calm herself. The coloured thread in her hair began to glow brightly under her hands, sparkling like the glitter in the air. Mary noticed, and stopped stroking. _I knew they would leave eventually. We broke tradition, and we brought a human here for the first time in so long..._ She looked sadly at Charlie. _They allowed us a bond, but they never trusted you. I’m sorry._

“Hey, don’t worry about me,” Charlie said, shaking her head. “I get it. Humans, witches, they’re all bad news for fairies.”

“Not all of us,” Castiel said. “You and I are their friends. Allies.”

Charlie tilted her head sympathetically. “Over time, enough of us became a nuisance that nowadays it’s safer for them to avoid the whole lot,” she said. “You can’t always tell someone’s intentions until it’s too late.”

_The fairies expected someone cruel and self-serving,_ Mary signed. _Someone like Rowena. If things hadn’t gone right today, she would’ve had us lead her here. Had the faeriefolk still lived here, Rowena would’ve tried to capture them all._

Castiel blinked, then lowered his eyes in apology. “Our kind... humans... we’ve driven your family out.”

Dean fluttered closer, hovering in front of Castiel’s face. He touched Castiel’s chin, lifting his gaze. Dean smiled. _You’re part of our family now,_ he signed, affection in every movement.

Castiel’s breath hitched, and a warmth set itself in his heart, growing stronger every second.

“We can do the bonding ceremony without them,” Charlie said determinedly. “Who needs those stuffy old elders, anyway? New age faeriefolk, right here!”

Sam buzzed, suddenly enthused. _We can make up a new ceremony!_

“Will it work the same way?” Castiel asked, frowning.

Mary flapped her hands dismissively. _One ceremony, another ceremony, they’re all the same. The two of you swear yourselves to each other, and we bear witness._

Castiel felt heat creep up from under his collar. “I... I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but... is this anything like a wedding?”

Charlie smirked. “It’s whatever you want it to be. Mine and Mary’s was like... a shared birthday party. Like sisters, or best friends. We had tea and cakes, and the fairies had picnic blankets set out all the way across the clearing!”

“And me and Dean—” Castiel glanced at his beloved friend, wondering how on Earth they were meant to define their relationship. It was still so new! There were so many ways it could change in the future; only the future could tell.

Dean settled on Castiel’s palm, feet swinging over the side of his hand. _We can be anything you’d like to be,_ he signed. There was a faint blush on his cheeks.

Castiel suddenly realised he might be blushing because he was almost naked, and with a gasp, Castiel reached into his pocket and pulled out Charlie’s handkerchief. “Here!” he said, giving the white cloth to Dean. “I’m so sorry about your clothes...”

Dean waved him off, but took the handkerchief. _Thank you._ His hands shook; he was obviously upset about the loss, and Castiel was sorry for reminding him.

“Um,” Castiel said, trying to distract Dean away. “How might we go about starting this ceremony?”

Dean raised his right hand, giving it a wave. Castiel gasped when he saw a trail of silver sparkles follow in the wake of the movement. _This ground is full of magic,_ Dean signed, and his hands blazed with light. _Just think about what you want and it’ll come to you._

“Just like that? It’s that simple?”

Charlie chuckled. “Why do you think the witches want to find this place so badly, huh? Look at your feet, Cas.”

Castiel squinted, but then he looked down. “Aah!” he shouted, kicking his feet. He was hovering a foot above the ground, his shoes sparkling, every movement followed by a white trail.

Charlie and Sam laughed from below, watching as Castiel floated higher. Dean flew with him, beaming.

“How do I make it stop?!” Castiel asked, frantic, but Dean only laughed.

_You’re floating yourself,_ Dean explained. _This is your ceremony, Cas. This is how you imagined it, this is how it’s going to be._

“Imagined— I didn’t imagine anything!” Castiel cried, flapping his arms. He bobbed in mid-air, and the gusts of enchanted leaves came and swirled around him, whispering and singing. “Dean, help!”

Dean rolled onto his back and laughed without sound, holding his stomach. As his shoulders shook, the handkerchief unwound from his body without a touch, and Dean did nothing to stop it. As Castiel watched, the handkerchief came apart by its threads, as if returning to the state it was in before it became a handkerchief. Dean controlled his laughter to watch too, fascinated: the white threads reworked themselves, stitched up into a long, soft rope.

Dean and Castiel’s eyes met across the light-filled space. Fear vanished from Castiel; laughter faded out of Dean.

A strange sense of peace came over Castiel, and he knew instinctively it was nothing to do with this place, this magic, or the act he was about to perform: he was calm because, for the first time in such a long time, he had no plan. No expectations. This ceremony was being pulled from his deepest subconscious thoughts like a thread unravelling from a cloth; it could become anything, the way his friendship with Dean could become anything.

This was to be his future, and it was going to be magnificent.

Castiel stretched out his arm to Dean, and Dean took his fingers, holding them. The floating white rope draped itself over Castiel’s shoulders, wrapping in a spiral down his outstretched arm, around and around and around, hiding his wrist. Its thin end slipped between two of his fingers, and then continued its binding around Dean’s arm, around and around and around, then over his shoulder to encompass his torso.

And, just like that, they were bound to each other.

Castiel smiled. Dean’s expression of interest broke into a massive grin, eyes alive with tears of joy. Castiel could only imagine how long he’d been waiting for this moment.

Feeling like he’d forgotten to breathe all this time, Castiel panted, inhaling the scent of pine and springtime-fresh leaves. The trees around him and Dean seemed to grow taller; upon taking a look around, Castiel realised they were slowly returning to the ground. Oh, they’d been so high up!

Castiel’s feet touched the leaves and he took his own weight again, wild with exhilaration. “We did it!” he laughed, taking Dean in his hand. He grinned at his fairy, glowing with all the happiness in the world. A leftover shimmer tickled at his eye. “We really did it.”

Dean sat in Castiel’s palm, holding his gaze with a warm smile. He took Castiel’s thumb in his tiny hands, and he leaned in to kiss it gently.

Dean didn’t need to say anything. Charlie, Mary, and Sam didn’t need to say anything. The bond was formed. What would that mean for the two of them? Was their bond really stronger than any of the bonds made in the past? Only time could tell.

Castiel didn’t feel any different from before. But, oh, how different the rest of the world felt, now.

⧫ ◊ ⧫ ◊ ⧫

“A _test_?” Charlie gripped the letter harder, pacing in a circle. “What’s that supposed to mean, a _test_?!”

“I assume it means exactly what it says,” Castiel said, threading velvet through his machine. “I don’t think anyone at the school wants a rogue witch living somewhere in the town. You did stab their best teacher with a shoe, after all.”

“But!” Charlie dropped the letter on Castiel’s desk, where it was retrieved by Sam and Mary, who took it to examine it. “But this is the _Fairy Ridge School of Witchcraft_ ,” Charlie said, hands palm-up in front of her. “As in, the school you non-witches aren’t meant to know about! The same school that expelled me for – and I quote – cowardice, a lack of respect for tradition, and _unnecessary cheerfulness_. I don’t want to go back to a school where they think murder and misery are commendable character traits!”

Castiel took the letter from Sam, who couldn’t read English anyway. With a ponderous sigh, Castiel skimmed over the bits that stood out the most. “— _Has taken an impressive initiative_ , la-dee-da, _unexpected force of will_ , bluh-bluh-blah, _offer to re-initiate failed schooling_ , so on and so forth, _signed by decree of the headmistress, the late Mistress Rowena_.” He squinted. “Apparently she’s writing letters from beyond the grave.”

Charlie waved her hand dismissively. “It’s a witch thing, you wouldn’t get it.”

Folding the letter, Castiel handed it back to Charlie. “I think you should take the test. I know you don’t agree with the morals of the Grand Coven – I certainly don’t, not if they’re still hell-bent on capturing fairies. But if there’s a way you could convince them that enslaving another magical species isn’t a great way of achieving world domination, then you should seize that opportunity. They’re more likely to listen to you if you’re wearing their uniform.”

Charlie sighed, resting heavily against the nearest workbench. “They very conveniently left _you_ out of it, by the way. You were the one who rescued Dean from his spell, not me.”

Castiel gave a small smile, returning to sewing up his newest garment. “I got what I needed out of this. If they’re willing to hand it to you, you go ahead and take all the credit you want.”

Charlie stood straight and touched Castiel’s shoulder as she passed by, on her way to pacing some more.

Sam buzzed into the air all of a sudden, fluttering over to the glass front of the shop. Castiel looked over, and his face split into a grin as he saw Dean hovering at the window, knocking on the glass from outside. He was holding a gigantic bouquet of flowers, all different kinds.

Castiel hurried to the door to let Dean in, and he brought a flood of sunlight with him as he entered. Dean whooshed forward, carrying the flowers over to the desk. He propped them upright beside Castiel’s sewing kit, then set his tiny feet down on the desk, the heels of his moccasins tapped smartly together. He bowed to Castiel, then gestured to the flowers.

“Are those for me?” Castiel asked, sitting down on his stool, a flurry of delightful feelings filling him up. “Oh, Dean. I’m touched.”

Dean picked out a single rose, smirked, then presented the bloom to Castiel.

Castiel took the rose and pressed his hand upon his heart, then Dean’s, demonstrating the faeriefolk’s gesture of thanks. “They’re beautiful.”

“I’ll go find you a vase,” Charlie said.

“Take your time,” Castiel said.

Charlie glanced back and nodded; Castiel wanted privacy and she understood. “How about I get you two some pie while I’m at it?” Charlie offered. Mary and Sam flew off to the kitchen with her, both signing a cheerful banter which no doubt ridiculed and honoured Dean and Castiel for their showy affections.

Castiel glanced towards the kitchen, checking the others were gone. He leaned back in his stool to make sure, and once they were completely out of sight, Castiel sat up and beamed at Dean.

“I made you something,” Castiel said gently, reaching for a drawer beside his desk. “I know you liked what I made you for the festival, but I think something less formal might be more appropriate.” From the drawer, he pulled out a tunic made of turquoise green netting, nearly exactly the same as what Dean was wearing when he and Castiel first met.

“I’m hoping it could represent a fresh start,” Castiel said, laying the tunic over his fingers, offering it to Dean. “A clean slate, now that we’re newly bonded.”

Dean took the tunic and held it up, pure awe in his eyes. It wasn’t hard to see how much effort Castiel had put into making this: there was not one stitch in the fabric, and every dainty diamond shape was hand-knotted.

Dean set down the tunic and immediately began to take his patchwork tunic off – he’d been aching to remove it ever since Castiel had provided a hasty replacement for what Rowena destroyed.

Grinning, Castiel handed Dean the netted tunic. Dean slipped it on carefully and smiled, doing a turn to make the tassels spin. Castiel laughed, one hand curled against his cheek, a finger of the other hand held out to guide Dean as he danced.

Dean soon came to a tumbling stop, a flush of exhilaration on his cheeks. _I love it,_ he signed, a soft smile on his lips. _And I love you._

Castiel bit his lip and brushed a hand over his cheek, feeling his skin burn. _I’ll always be glad you came back, Dean._

Dean smirked. _No chance I was letting you run this place by yourself. You’re hopeless without me._

Castiel scoffed, eyes gleaming. “Huh!”

Dean stepped forward, and Castiel cupped his hand so Dean could sit in his palm. Dean hugged one finger, kissing Castiel’s fingertip. _Next time..._

“What?” Castiel prompted.

Dean lowered his eyes, apparently bashful. _I wouldn’t say no to having another pair of those pink bloomers,_ he signed in small movements, like a whisper.

Castiel smirked. “Once I’m done with this gown for Lady Eve – oh, and Sir Cain’s suit after that – I’ll start on something extra-special for you. Promise.” He reached forward and stroked a fingertip through Dean’s hair, making the fairy duck his head and laugh.

The decorative feathers dangling over Dean’s shoulder gleamed as afternoon sunshine cut through the shop’s front windows, and in the light, Dean seemed to glow all over. Just like magic.

With a happy lightness in his heart, Castiel leaned back and set Dean on top of his sewing box, next to the propped-up flowers. Dean sat and swung his legs, ready to oversee Castiel as he carried on with his projects.

Castiel thought Dean looked perfect there. That was where he belonged.

Right beside Castiel, always.

{ _**the end**_ }

**Author's Note:**

> A hearty round of applause for my betas, who did _so much work_ on this fic. I don't even know what kind of rubbish I'd be posting without their help, seriously.
> 
> And now for the usual spiel: for the love of teeny tiny fairy beds in flower pots, please leave kudos and/or a comment if this made you feel at least one emotion. As an author I thrive on feedback, and I'd really appreciate it. Even if you don't (because you're an ignorant snail), thank you for reading! ♥♥♥
> 
> [★ Illustration post on tumblr](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/119991331010/finally-posting-the-illustration-for-my-new-fic)


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